


Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

by tronjolras



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: F/M, It's pretty much the last few pages of ch 17 in the novel, POV First Person, Unimaginative modern au, mr. Rochester learned to play the guitar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tronjolras/pseuds/tronjolras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Rochester disappeared into the shadows and reappeared with an old acoustic guitar. I found myself more intrigued by the reflected firelight dancing across the polished wood than discovering Mr. Rochester owned it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anyway, Here's Wonderwall

I sat quietly in the corner, hoping to evade anymore talking and insulting anecdotes of nannies. Mr. Rochester looked so happy sitting next to the glamorous Blanche Ingram. The only light in the living room was from the electric fireplace and a few jasmine and vanilla candles Miss Ingram placed for "olfactory stimulation." I watched the flame of the potent vanilla candle closest to me and started braiding a thin strand of my hair. I was the youngest person there and the division was tangible.

There, in the light, were the adults gabbing happily and familiarly. The closest I ever came to that type of conversation was with Mrs. Fairfax when she had a moment free.  
It was easy to get lost in the perfume; my mind couldn't stay on one thought for long.

After a while, I started picking up bits of the conversation. Then suddenly, "What's that in the corner over there?" 

I felt a surge of indigence. Could fabulous Blanche Ingram not see I was a person? I had half a mind to make a grand exit to make sure she knew. Mr. Rochester seemed to have the same idea because he caught me eyes and half stood from the armchair before he noticed Blanche was looking at the opposite corner.

Mr. Rochester disappeared into the shadows and reappeared with an old acoustic guitar. I found myself more intrigued by the reflected firelight dancing across the polished wood than discovering Mr. Rochester owned it. 

The instrument drew a gasp from the audience to be. "Won't you play something, Eddie?" Miss Ingram simpered. Mr. Rochester smiled, a little embarassed.

"I haven't played in years I think—except… no, it's a godawful song. I just learned it for Adele." There was an desperate "awww" from all of the ladies except Blanche. She urged him too play it nevertheless. "It's a stupid song," he protested. While the adults implored him to play, I wondered what he was talking about. I never heard anything about Mr. Rochester learning a song for Adele, though I wished it were true. Adele always loved her father's attention and I could just imagine the smile on her face when he played her the song. Finally, Mr. Rochester sat back down and poised the guitar to play. "I just learned it," was his last protest but the gentle Miss Ingram pressed his arm must have persuaded him.

"Okay…anyway, here's Wonderwall."

I was flattering myself if I believed he glanced at me before beginning. I knew that song. I /loved/ that song. He played it like a lullaby and he looked at Miss Ingram the whole intro.

When he started singing I couldn't help but gasp a little. His voice was so deep and rich, but complimented the edge of indie music. If I closed my eyes, he could have easily been singing that song to me, but I knew he wasn't when Miss Ingram joined in, offsetting to low song with a soprano harmony. It sounded so wonderful but left a bitter taste on my tongue.

Miss Ingram and Mr. Rochester sounded so right together and there I was, feeling like I watching something private and sensual. All Mr. Rochester needed to do was twitch the corner of his mouth for Miss Ingram to change her note in time and in tune as if nothing in the world mattered except the song about saving people…

Miss Ingram was saving Mr. Rochester from a life of solitude. No doubt they would move away from his lonely castle and go somewhere exciting like Paris or New York where he could be content with the most beautiful woman in the world and scores of their handsome friends and I would be left here with Adele. 

No, I wouldn't be "left," I would stay. Happily. As happily as Mr. Rochester would live in his happy penthouse in happy New York with happy, beautiful Miss Ingram. 

If I had trouble breathing before, I felt absolutely suffocated now. 

I fled from the living room quietly as possible, aided by the darkness. I almost made it to the second floor landing when a hand caught my sweater. I spinner to find myself confronted with the tall specter of Mr. Rochester looming above me. 

"What are your doing, Jane?" His whisper was deafening in the night's silence. 

My emotions, the embarrassment, the surprise that he came after me, and the way I thought is could see his eyes in the darkness rendered me speechless.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thanks," I said.

I lied.

"Why didn't you talk back there?"

"I don't know what to say." 

He seemed to accept my answer, but his eyes bore into me still. "How have you been since I left?"

It was an odd question so I reverted to my first answer. "Fine, I've been looking after Adele as usual."

"And becoming paler— if possible. God Jane, you glow in the dark. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Depressed?"

"No."

"Then come back to the party," he requested.

"Please, Mr. Rochester, I'm very tired." I tugged my sweater sleeve away from his grasp. He waited a second before letting it go but his gaze didn't.

"And sad. Jane, what's going on? Tell me."

"It's nothing," I persisted. "I am not sick or depressed or sad, just tired."

"Yes, you are." I was offended by his determination. "Look at you. Two more words and you'll cry. The tears are there, they're glowing just like your skin. There, it falls. If my guests weren't so impatient, I'd keep you right here until you tell me what's wrong." I wanted to assure him that he would be waiting a long time if it were the truth. "Goodnight Jane," he said, finally releasing me from his gaze.

I turned around but didn't move until I heard his footsteps descending, then suddenly, "Jane—"

I faced him once again with a blessed few more feet between us. 

"Jane, I hope you liked the song."

Again, speechless.

"Never mind. Goodnight, Jane."

**Author's Note:**

> For Andrea
> 
> Wonderwall was written by Noel Gallagher and produced by Owen Morris


End file.
